


Something to Sing About

by tck_writes



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Episode: s05e22 The Gift, Episode: s06e10 Wrecked, F/M, Post-Episode: s05e22 The Gift, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-09-23 19:11:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17086076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tck_writes/pseuds/tck_writes
Summary: Wrecked mid/post ep. Buffy gets a wake up call, and finally starts taking care of her sister. With this comes a few other realizations, putting an end to some of the later villains in season 6 before canon. Likely eventual Spuffy, but with a slow start. An attempt to look at the unraveling problems since "The Gift", and see the Scoobies try to deal with them without the looming threat of an inevitable apocalypse. Alternating perspectives, Buffy written in 2nd person.





	1. One

Dawn screams when you touch her arm lightly, screams the soft, hushed, scream of the helpless and hurt, and the dread settles full force back to your skin, the weight shattering. 

You breathe, once. Half a gasp, to force down the despair. 

“We need to get her to a Doctor,” you can hear yourself say.

Because this is your sister. The one you died saving, only to come back and abandon. Your blood-tie, who you _neglected_ , who’s bleeding, and hurt, and - _this is all your fault_.

“Dawnie,” you say, as gently as you can, “I’m going to carry you, okay? Unless you think you can stand?”

“Okay,” she says, and you take it as agreement, scoop her into your arms, careful not to jostle her hands. You stand slowly, remember the rest of the world around you.

Spike, who’s standing right beside you, eyes following. Worried. Careful. Concerned.

And Willow. Blocking your way. “I’m sorry,” she’s saying, over, and over. Red-hot fury simmers, and you brisk your pace until you’ve passed her, until you hear her fall to the ground behind you, and something involuntary inside of you _snaps_ , forces you to stop. To turn around.

Your rage dissipates, in that second. Fractures, to sheer disappointment and _pain_ , when all you can see is your best friend groveling at your feet. “I’m sorry,” she’s still saying, “I’m sorry.”

And that’s the shining, awful moment of clarity, when your heart drops a bit more - _and do you even have one, at this point?_ \- that it’s not just Dawn you’ve been neglecting. It’s everyone, almost, everyone except Spike, who’s an entirely separate issue by himself.

But you’re holding your shivering sister in your arms, and right now you have to take care of her, not your best friend who’s partially responsible.

“Spike,” you say, barely a whisper, as you let your gaze flicker over to Willow’s hunched form and then back, a question without speaking. His eyes bleed anger but he gives you a slow, firm, nod, and you continue on your way to the hospital without turning back. The idea of another favor owed leaves a hollow ache, but you can’t - _won’t_ leave Dawn, not again, and Spike’s promises are kept. Always.

“I’m sorry,” you tell Dawn, a poor echo of Willow’s words, but you have nothing else you can say, not when there are so many, many, things, you owe her this apology for.

“You came,” she says in response. There’s awe, and a certain degree of shock, which _hurts_ , makes you want to say that you _always_ do, that you always _have_ , but even if it’s true, rushing to the hospital at eleven at night means it’s not enough. Because your job now is to protect her from the possibility of trouble in the first place, not just rescue her out of it. And if you’d been doing it right, none of this would have happened.

So instead, you say, “Not soon enough,” and Dawn doesn’t argue.

The silence continues until you reach the ER reception room, and you settle Dawn into an unoccupied chair before heading up to talk the lady at the desk.

“My sister and I were in a car accident - Dawn and Buffy Summers,” you explain, adding your names, hoping the bruises still on you face will lend credence to her story, hoping no one will think that you caused Dawn’s injuries, “I carried her in, she can’t move her arm, I don’t know if she’s hurt anywhere else.”

“I see,” the lady tells you, handing over a clipboard, “we’d like you to fill this out, and a doctor will see her soon.”

You tell her thank you, slip into the seat next to Dawn’s. Her right hand is cradled to her chest, and cuts and bruises litter your sister’s face. 

“I need to get something from the bathroom. I’ll be right back?” 

She gives you a small nod before her gaze drifts away, and it’s clear she doesn’t believe you. Then again, you don’t deserve it - you haven’t exactly given her a reason to.

You run your fingers through her hair, just once, duck down to plant a quick kiss against her forehead, wait until her gaze meets yours. “I’ll be right back,” you say again, and maybe this time there’s the possibility of belief in her eyes.

You return in under a minute, holding a bundle of half-soaked paper-towels in one hand, dry bundle in the other. Water drips intermittently on the floor, and Dawn looks at you with half an eyebrow raised in question.

“To clean your cuts,” you tell her, as the water droplets expand on the floor.

She gives a small nod, and you kneel down to her level, press one of the damp ones to the gash above her eye, careful not to exert too much pressure. She winces as you continue, replacing the blood-soaked paper-towel with a dry one, but otherwise shows no sign of distress.

You’re terribly proud of her, you think, but it’s marred with your own horrible sense of shame and guilt, and the familiarity of the situation - role reversal and all - is not lost on you. So you talk, as you continue, as the blood covering Dawn’s face transforms into more manageable scrapes and bruises. Voice soft-spoken, because this is not a time when you have a right to ask for _anything_ from her, but you’re afraid you’ll never get a chance, otherwise, and you have to fix this. Have to make sure it never happens again, to the best of your ability.

“I haven’t been paying much attention to you,” you admit, holding back the urge to apologize, again, because now is not the time, “since I came back. I’ve forgotten about you, and left you alone, when you’re the _most_ important person in my life.” And it’s true, because your friends brought you back, Giles _left (because of this)_ , Spike is somehow the one who makes your newly-returned hell _bearable_ , but Dawn was the one who got you off that tower the second time. Convinced you to _stay_ , and you made a promise when you got yourselves off of the cursed attraction before it collapsed, a promise you’ve since broken - when you went off to see Angel, off to see Spike, when you drifted off on Halloween, and above all else, tonight. 

“But I haven’t been treating you like it, and that’s - it’s gonna change,” you tell her, as your voice breaks, and your vision finally blurs, as tears you can’t hold back scurry unbidden down your cheeks. “After this - when you’re all checked out, and we’re back home, and you’re safe - I’d like for us to talk. About everything that’s happened, since before I came back. And I - I’m gonna make sure this doesn’t happen again, okay? But I need your help.” The last of the blood and grime is gone, and so you scrunch up the used papers in your hand, take half a step to put them in the trash, wipe your hand across your face to quell the tears, and go back to half-kneeling in front of Dawn. You meet her eyes, and she’s crying, too. “I’m so sorry, Dawnie,” you say again, and it’s for everything, from dying to staying to leaving.

“It’s okay,” she offers you, taking your hand in her uninjured one, holding it tight. “You came tonight.” A partial giving back of trust you haven’t yet earned.

“It’s not. And I’m not leaving,” you tell her, and her nod this time is sure. 

It’s utterly gratifying, the lack of disbelief in her eyes.

You slip back into the seat beside hers, and she leans into you, lets you run your fingers through her hair until she falls asleep, resting on you shoulder. You fill out the two sheets of paper attached to the clipboard, and it’s comforting, if also undeniably painful, the familiarity of your sister asleep against you in a hospital waiting room.

It makes you miss your mother with a sharp, jagged, pang, and that’s all it takes for the cascade of tears to make their reappearance, sliding down without your permission. You keep on stroking Dawn’s hair, keep your shoulders from shaking as the avalanche pours out. Maybe it’s a gift, a twisted one, that no sound comes out even as your chest heaves from the onslaught. Maybe you _did_ come back wrong.

This world is harsh, is bright and loud, _screaming_ in hurt, it’s why you jump at slammed doors and freeze at sirens, why you run your hands over the fabric of your clothes before you wear them, still, why you’re slower and less careful with the vampires than you should be, so you always end the day scarred, so the pain reminds you that you’re a part of it, this world, that you exist _in_ it, that the pain is real on the outside, and not just within you. Especially since everything about the interaction of _this_ world, to you, feels dulled and numbed, out of sync. Except moments like tonight, when it bursts through screaming.

And Willow hurt Dawn. Hurt Tara before that, and you didn’t listen. Brought _you_ out of heaven, to this place of misery, and you blamed her completely but then pushed it aside because you wanted someone on your side so badly, you missed her linkage to the recent disasters. And she hurt _Dawn_ , and everyone saw it coming _except_ you.

There’s a tingle at the base of your neck that alerts you to the presence of a vampire, so you suck in your breath and get ready to move Dawn off of you, to fight like you always do, but you shift your head around and it’s Spike.

He drops down unceremoniously in the chair next to yours, and you feel yourself relax, the fear and tension drain away from you, just a little.

He doesn’t comment on it, your tear-stained face, just glances over at Dawn to say, “How is she?”

“Shook up,” you say, because you know that much without having asked her, “and hurt. Betrayed.” By whom goes unsaid. “No doctor yet, but it should be her turn soon,” you speculate, glancing up at the clock in the corner, which shows half-past midnight - the trade-off of being a non-critical patient in the Sunnydale ER.

“Thank you,” you add, honest and heartfelt, your gaze fixed on Dawn.

He doesn’t say anything in response, and you don’t push him on it, running your eyes over and over again across your little sister’s sleeping form. Arm aside, you figure nothing’s hurt really bad, but it’s still too much, still too close. You should ask about Willow, but you can’t make yourself form the words, can only see the possibilities of Dawn’s dead body laid out like mom’s, only to remember she’s alive and breathing right next to you - you and Willow, you almost got her _killed_.

“Slayer,” Spike intones, and you realize you’re crying, again, the hot liquid stinging your eyes, almost familiar, at this point. 

A cold hand brushes against your cheek, and you know it’s his, but you let it be, energy sapped, until your eyes are locked onto his, looking at you like he did the night you came back, hands bloody from crawling out of a coffin, your own - and you blink, snap out of it, lean away just a little, and he lets you, lets his hands drop back to his lap, a white handkerchief held in one. And your eyes sting, and every part of you still hurts, has barely stopped hurting since you fought your way out from the box buried underground, but your cheeks are dry. 

“You love me,” you say, the weight of the words - real, honest, words - suddenly making sense, suddenly having meaning, but he doesn’t break away from your stare.

“I _love_ you,” he confirms, and for the first time since you’ve heard him say it, you believe him.

“Oh.” You didn’t think - couldn’t think - couldn’t let yourself believe it, not after Angel, not after Riley, and not after being _forced_ back to life, by your friends. Not after Giles hurt you and near left you and promised to stay, only to leave _again_ \-- and your betrayal runs every bit as deep as Dawn’s, you realize. Is just as cutting, and yet Spike’s been saving your life ever since you’ve been getting your heartbroken, from sending Angelus into a hell dimension to saving you from self-combustion by song. You’ve kept on just shoving him away, when Spike’s ultimately the only one helping you both, especially Dawn, _taking care_ of you both, when no one else has.

“You’re not dirt,” you find yourself saying, a vehemence entering your tone that seems to surprise the both of you, “You’re not an evil, soulless, _thing_. Maybe I thought you were when we first met, but you aren’t now. Haven’t been for a while, and I shouldn’t have…” Your voice trails off, as you let your mind wander back to the morning, to blinking into consciousness inside a broken house, but having slept, for once. Waking up peaceful and not terrified, for once, until the magnitude of the event brought back the fear, again, made you lash out. “You _are_ convenient,” you continue, because it’s true, and because Spike _deserves_ better than the likes of a broken, furious and lashing, shell of your past self, deserves honesty at the very least, “but you’re also…” here, you think. Sitting in a hospital and waiting to make sure your sister’s gonna be okay, and sitting, and staying, and not getting up and trying to steal blood, or anything else. The very definition of decency. And that echoes the likes of comfort, the feeling buried somewhere deep inside you. 

“Everyone leaves,” you finally find yourself admitting, back to your vigil over your sister, as her hair passes through your fingers over and over, “Or they stop being… mine, anymore.” Like your friends, Xander and Willow at the forefront. “But… not you. Not yet. I don’t know if I love you, and I don’t know if I can, Spike, because the only person I actually care about right now is Dawn, and before tonight, all I _felt_ was numb. Except when I kissed you, and last night, and it almost felt like I was _alive_. And I’ve been rude, and selfish, and _cruel_ , because I want you to leave _before_ I make you leave me. But you’re right. I came back _wrong_ , and I’m _using_ you, and that’s not…” You force yourself to look at him, to meet his eyes, let another too-late apology tear through your bones, “You deserve more than that. I’m sorry, Spike.”

The hospital speakers blare out Dawn’s name before he can respond, and you turn back to your sister, almost grateful for the interruption, call her name to wake her up, sling your arm around her back so you don’t have to let go of her as you walk to the designated room, Spike following silently behind.

 

~ ~ ~

 

It’s not until Dawn’s getting an x-ray and you’re alone with Spike again, sitting on less comfortable chairs in an otherwise deserted hallway, that you finally force yourself to ask about Willow.

“She almost _killed_ her,” he begins, plain fury unmasked on his face.

“I know,” you say, tone flat, dangerous, because you _do_ , and some of his ferocity fades.

“Took her back to the house. Was a soddin’ mess, apologizing.” It’s clear from his tone he’s not sympathetic, and you can’t blame him, not when the part of you solely on Dawn’s side agrees completely. “Told her I’d make her regret it if she even _thought_ of usin’ magic. Came over here as soon as she was asleep.”

“You left her alone?”

His glare turns to you, full force, and you hurry to remedy your mistake, “I’m not _blaming_ you, I’m -” but you are, you realize. In the way that you always do. “- thank you for taking care of her.”

“Should’a left her on the street,” he replies, but his rage is no longer directed at you.

“I need to ask you for something else,” you tell him, closing your eyes briefly at all the implications.

“Ask,” he says, fire spitting again from his eyes, daring, and you backtrack, just a little.

“I don’t want Willow anywhere _near_ Dawn. Not until she’s stopped abusing magic, not until Dawn’s comfortable with the idea.” The half of you that’s been Willow’s friend since the move to Sunnydale wants to violently reject that notion, of leaving your friend out essentially stone cold - wants to hold her and comfort her and figure out a way to _fix_ everything - but she hurt _Dawn_. The youngest of all of you. To be protected, by mutual agreement. And _your_ kin, and _blood_ , and _responsibility_ , above _all_ else. 

“With you so far, Slayer.”

And it’s beginning to occur to you that Tara’s abrupt departure from the household wasn’t just from upset of Willow over-using magic. That the memory-forgetting escapade that happened just prior in the Magic Box could just as easily have been Willow’s doing as opposed to a stray magic-caster, that it almost makes _more_ sense if it was, that if this isn’t the first of Willow’s spiraling, possibly _harmful_ , use of magic, there’s no guarantee it will be the last. No safeguard in place to prevent Dawn getting hurt again, if caught in the crossfire.

“But I can’t kick her out without a place to stay, and it’s not fair to foist her off on the others, not after whatever it was that came between her and Tara, and I’m not sure Anya and Xander would take her, not with their wedding coming up.”

“So you want _me_ to take her?”

“No.” He looks genuinely surprised by the quick refusal, and you’re quick to add, “That wouldn’t be fair to you, and beyond that, I’m not sure she’d actually stay.”

“I think maybe she could stay in the dorms, even if it’s late in the year, if she can afford it.” You’re pretty sure that’s the route Tara chose, although it’s beginning to make you uneasy, the thought of making Willow follow Tara’s path, if something did happen that you’re not aware of. But you can’t think of anything else, and you _do_ want to _help_ Willow, so you keep on talking, try to justify your reasons to the vampire in front of you with none, try to come up with a plan that will actually achieve some sort of progress. “And lodgings aside, even with what she did tonight, she’s still my friend. And I _have_ to help her, Spike, I _owe_ her that, and if she’s left alone, if Tara asking her to wasn’t enough, then she’s going to _keep_ doing magic, black magic, and people are going to keep getting hurt, _including_ Willow. So I need you to set up a Scooby meeting at the magic box, first light, you, Tara, Xander, and Anya. Pool your resources and find out what we can do. Call Giles, if you have to. Ask Tara to look into the dorms, see if anyone else has suggestions. Willow can stay tonight, but _Dawn_ is my priority. I _can’t_ let her get hurt again. _Please_.”

“‘Course, Luv,” he says, not even a moment’s pause, and you let yourself breathe a sigh of relief.

“Thank you.” Another breath. Finances cross your mind, envelopes and papers scattered across a table in front of you, another item you’ve been ignoring, wallowing in misery and denial. “And ask Anya to come over after the Magic Box closes?”

He nods, and you return the gesture.

 

~ ~ ~

 

It’s 3 am by the time you leave, your mother’s credit card tallied up with another bill you can’t afford, pain meds from the pharmacy tucked in your jacket pocket, Dawn huddling into you as the cold night air chills you both, white cast and sling with red lining attached to her arm, fractured, but not broken. Spike walks you both to the door before turning and heading away with a soft, “Take care, Nibblet,” in parting, a brief glance to you in acknowledgement.

“It still hurts,” Dawn tells you the moment you’ve entered the house, sinking into a chair as you lock the door behind you both. You figure the meds they gave her at the ER must be wearing off, so you pour a glass of water, examine the orange prescription bottles carefully before taking out one pill from each, laying them on the dining room table in front of Dawn.

“These should help, but they’ll also put you to sleep.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday, so there’s no school.”

You make a mental note to pay attention the days of the week. “I know,” you say, wincing internally at your own incompetence, “But unless you want to sleep in those clothes, we should probably get you ready for bed first.”

“Oh. Right.”

Unlatching the sling is easy, but the rest, less so, as Dawn gasps and flinches at the slightest movement of her injured arm. You give her one of your own button-up PJ shirts to put on, the material of the larger shirt sliding loosely over your sister’s cast.

You watch her swallow both pills before you send her to brush her teeth, tucking the covers in carefully around her when she returns. 

It feels a bit like innocence, like losing it, repeating something your dad used to do before he stopped being your dad, back when you and Dawn were both just kids - such a long, long, time ago.

“Can I stay here?” You ask her, before she can fully succumb to sleep, the fear of losing her near suffocating you.

“‘Til I wake up?” And now it’s Dawn asking you.

“I’ll be here,” you promise, and it isn’t long before her breath evens out entirely.

 

~ ~ ~

 

You set yourself down with your back against Dawn’s door, knees drawn into yourself, arms wrapped tightly around them, giving you some semblance of comfort, and warmth, but with visibility of the whole room, ready to attack. You palm the stake in your hand you took from your jacket, watch the steady rise and fall of Dawn’s chest, the slight smile on her face as she sleeps, peaceful-like.

Anyone who wants her, they’ll have to get through _you_.


	2. Two

He makes it to the Magic Box just as the sun starts to rise, ducking quickly into the sewers when it becomes evident both doors are locked. He isn’t sure they’ll listen to him - well, the boy won’t, but the ex-demon might, and the shop will best be served as a meeting place, so long as the morning trickle of customers is slow.

He lets his mind drift back as he waits for the sound of the shop bell to announce the existence of another presence, replays the previous night.

It’d been almost fun, really, an excellent game with a winning hand, until the Slayer had name-dropped Rack. Along with the Little Bit. And Red.

It’d been stupid of them both, to frolick down the streets. Almost arm in arm, except not, and far too slow, the mad dash of fear when the Bit had screamed. 

“You’re gonna be okay,” he’d been saying, crouched next to the Nibblet while the Slayer lunged straight for the demon, “It’ll be alright, Little Bit.”

He’d followed the Slayer, then. Ignored Red and the flash he’d caught of her inhuman black eyes, until Buffy had stopped and turned back, asked him to stay without words.

He’d resented it until the moment at the hospital, standing to the side before she’d noticed him, watching her sob silently with the Nibblet resting soundly against her. She’d looked spent up, then. Tired, and broken. Defeated. Like the day he’d gone to kill her, when Joyce had still been alive, when he’d ended up staying by her side on the porch instead.

And the torment of words that had poured out of her mouth. Raw, and honest, with a hint of desperation. “Except when I kissed you, and it almost felt like I was _alive_ ,” she’d said, and he’d known that, guessed it, pestered her to talk about if for that very reason, but he hadn’t expected any chance of real success, hadn’t expected the apology, nor the confession. 

It’s no one’s secret she’s been using him, kissing and running and avoiding in between, but the notion of her admitting it is new, is gratifying, to be treated like an equal instead of simple _convenience_. It’s her statement of him deserving better that’s utter shite, makes him want to yell hoarse at her so-called friends, again, for all they’ve done ripping her out of bliss. And he should never have called her wrong, no matter how perfectly he’d predicted the lady’s immediate reaction, not when she was still _herself_ , if a little lost, still Buffy, protectin’ the world over herself, quipping comebacks with well-timed precision, worried about the Little Bit beyond all else. The chip should mean next to _nothing_ , compared to that.

“Everyone leaves,” she’d said, and the haunted look before she’d turned away from him had been enough to want to hurt them all, the newly departed Watcher above others. Nothing she’d said had been a lie, and she’d known who she was talking to, but she’d said it to _him_ anyway, so he’ll be damned if he doesn’t stay now, doesn’t prove himself to her when she’s actually giving him a chance. Because, “I don’t know if I can love you,” is a hell of a lot more of a chance than he ever thought he’d have. And so he’ll help figure out Red’s mess, since she’d asked. For her and the Bit.

The shop bell chimes from above, and he hoists himself up to the rung beneath the trap door, climbing through it to encounter the ex-vengeance demon, patiently staring down at him.

“Spike.”

“Anya.”

“What are you doing in my store?”

“The Slayer wants to call a meeting.”

Her face contorts in obvious displeasure. “Now?”

“The Bit got hurt,” he practically growls, and her features twist into something more resembling concern.

“But she’s alright?”

“Because of Red, an’ her magic.” he finishes, nodding in answer to her previous question.

“Oh.”

She’s away and talking on the phone by the time he covers the sewer entrance back up, and the other two arrive quarter of an hour later, Glinda first, fingers dancing nervously across her bag, the boy soon after, glaring at him as he enters the shop.

“Red took the Little Bit out last night,” he begins, before any of the others can talk, “‘far as the Salyer and I can figure, dragged her out to Rack.”

The demon gasps, and Glinda’s face pales considerably, the color almost white. Good, he thinks, as he watches their reactions - they know exactly how bad this is.

“Who --” comes from the boy, before Glinda jumps in to interrupt him,

“Magical drug dealer. Addict. Deals in black magic. I have _no_ idea how Willow got involved with him. His clients die, or stay under his lure forever. Every creature of darkness can feel out his lair, and every light witch avoids his domain.”

“ _Every_ sane creature, avoids his domain,” Anya corrects, disapproval radiating from her, and Spike watches satisfied as the whelp gulps. Good, he thinks. The boy will _listen_ , now.

“So Red took her there, went in, came back out, summoned a demon. Stole a car, drove it with magic, likely, slammed it flat into a building, hard enough that the windshield shattered. When the Slayer and I got there, the Nibblet’s arm was hurt, and she was screaming for help with the demon ‘bout to do her in.”

Horrified silence permeates the Magic Box, for a moment, before Glinda asks, “And then?”

“Slayer fought it, for a while. Then Red’s eyes turned black, and she made it vanish. Slayer took the Bit to the hospital, I dropped ‘Red off at the house, then went to meet them. Fractured arm, no other _serious_ injuries.” He snarls the word, practically spitting. “They got back to the house half an hour before sunrise, the Bit’s probably sound asleep. Slayer wants Red out of her house before sundown, but she wanted us to have _this meeting_ ‘cause bloody woman still wants to _help_ Red, want us to figure out how the hell to stop the soddin’ magic overuse, and also find somewhere for her to stay that’s not with any of us. She suggested the dorms,” he says flatly, setting his gaze dead on Glinda until she nods, before he turns to the ex-demon, “said to call the Watcher if we have to, wanted you to stop by after the shop closed.” 

Silence falls, and he waits until each of them meet his stare, before he continues to the last bit, mindful of time, the lack of it, but it’s something that needs be said, and no one else is going to. “After this is all taken care of, when the Little Bit’s not hurt, and Red gets sorted out - you all need to _apologize_ to the Slayer. For how you brought her back, and for ignoring her. For not listening to her. She used to talk about you all like you were family, and now it’s like she’s all alone again. If you’re gonna be family, bloody well _do_ that. Don’t _abandon_ her ‘cause she’s not who you remember. She died. ‘Was happy. Now she has to live it all over again, _and_ hide the fact that she’s _not_ fine, because you all _want_ her to be, and you’re _all_ she has. Your friend is hurting. Stop pretending you can’t see it.”

He leans away from the counter, then sighs when no one else moves. “Known remedies for magical addiction. Ladies, go.”

“I don’t- Abstinence,” Glinda offers up, before following with an unsure shrug, “but that didn’t work, and the only other solution I know is stripping witches of their powers… but that _kills_ them, more often than not.”

“It’s not a drug, you know,” the ex-demon informs with clear disapproval of the notion, “Willow’s offboard because she’s trying to _control_ magic, _all_ magic, and it’s taking control of _her_ instead.”

“Look,” the whelp goes next, “maybe this is a stupid question, --”

“Probably,” Spike can’t help muttering, but the boy continues as if deaf,

“- but how come you never went overboard with all the wishes you granted? And Tara, why is it that Willow’s on the verge of maybe _killing_ someone, and you’ve been doing magic way longer, but you’re not affected?” 

Anya answers first, explaining, “As a Vengeance Wish Demon, my duty was granting wishes of vengeance. Like your duty is constructing houses. Now, there were people I avoided, to avoid having to grant _certain_ wishes -- but once I accepted, there simply wasn’t a way out of it, except the wisher regretting and disavowing the wish, breaking the pendant, which lost me my powers.”

Glinda follows, chiming in, “Willow’s really powerful, Xander, _much_ more than I am, but that aside, my mother taught me the limits when I was growing up. With little things, magic isn’t permanent - so the price is just the cost of the thing itself, its appearance, and then disappearance, or the exhaustion that comes after certain chants and rituals. The price of magic like Anya’s is eternally granting vengeance - that’s why Willow attracted D’hoffryn’s attention with the Will Be Done spell, if I understood that story correctly, and if she’d done something like that again, I don’t think she would have been given much of a choice - The Lower Beings exist for a reason.”

“She shouldn’t have,” the demon agrees, looking slightly put-out by the tone of the topic, “But becoming a Vengeance Demon is a great honor.”

“For you. Not for Willow. But it doesn’t explain why he didn’t show up to claim her when she went _near-suicidal_ and attacked Glory, and she went beyond just Vengeance levels with the Resurrection spell. It’s why those cuts appeared on her arms, and the snake came out of her mouth. Magic that powerful - and I didn’t _see_ it then, because I thought Willow had it all under control - its price extracts a higher toll. The lines Anya was talking about? Willow - with our help - crossed them. It’s a _miracle_ Buffy came back whole, let alone human, and functioning, all her memories intact. So with Willow - I think her magic’s out of control, because she’s been using it since for just about everything, from creating banners to making me **forget** conversations with her,” and he thinks Glinda’s fury at Red in that moment might even match his own, “erasing all our memories. And now this, with Dawnie. Magic has to be treated with respect, but Willow _refuses_ to see that, and I’ve tried telling her, but she won’t hear me. Whoever taught her forgot to explain about Balance, and now she’s too far _gone_ to listen.”

Frustration laces her tone along with sadness, and he’s never had a problem with Glinda except for the Resurrection, but he figures he might properly _like_ her now - she’s in love from afar, in love with someone _hurting_ her, just not too afraid to show it, and brave enough to stay away. The similarities are there, to both him _and_ the Salyer, not that she'll ever admit it, that his grandsire hurt her as much as he proclaimed to love her.

“No one did,” the boy speaks into the silence, “No one _taught_ Will anything, Giles just gave her books to start off, and she went and found more.”

“Soddin’ hell,” he finds himself speaking, because he’s felt the aftermath of Red’s magic, knows it’s bloody powerful, remembers it now, a boy Warlock alight with magic, mid 1900s, a concentration camp survivor who exploded not days after the allies’ victory march, near Katowice, eyes glassed the same demon-black as Red’s, taking out a whole row of shops, and fields - they’d chalked it up to a delayed bombing, later, all but forgotten, but Spike had been there. Had seen the wild, explosive, terrified motions of the boy before he’d started floating, before he’d stopped fighting it, given in. Traced it all back to forced Nazi experimentations, “Red’s untrained?”

“She’s not _untrained_ , Spike. I mean, Giles didn’t really teach her, but she’s read about magic, _practiced_ it, Will _knows_ what she’s been doing.”

“I don’t think so, Xander,” Glinda returns, ever the voice of reason, “I want Willow to be back to herself just as much as you, but she _doesn’_ t know the impacts of what she’s doing right now, and if she does, then she’s too convinced magic is the ultimate fix-it to see that it’s also the problem.”

“Might’a had a revelation last night,” Spike lets himself reveal, fury running through him at the thought of defending the witch, “After hurtin’ the Bit.”

Glinda’s eyes pierce his. “Will it last?”

“Not enough to bet Nibblet’s life on it.”

The whelp turns contemplatively to his fiancee, wincing as he asks, “Would your boss train her? The blue one, who made you all vengeance-y in the first place?”

 

She shakes her head with a touch of fear that looks out of place on her, what with Spike not being able to remember a time he’s seen the former vengeance demon even the _slight_ est bit shook up, “I don’t think he could, not anymore. Tara’s right, Willow’s long past spent her chances - even if we asked, even if she agreed, there are lines you don’t cross even as a Vengeance Demon.”

“The resurrection.”

“Exactly. I honestly thought it would fail. I’ve never seen one succeed, before, not like with Buffy.”

“That was the problem, wasn’t it? We all went along with Willow because it we didn’t think it would work, and then it did. And we all could have stopped it.”

“I’m not --” 

“going to apologize for not being upset about the fact that Buffy’s not dead. I know, Xander.”

“It doesn’t change that what we did was wrong.”

It’s clearly a conversation they’ve had before, and as nice as it is that the Slayer’s friends are debating consequences - and at least Glinda and the ex-demon realize what they’ve done - it doesn’t take a vampire to see that this isn’t the time. “Look, you lot can fight it out later. Back to the present. The Watcher couldn’t train her?”

“He’s in England.”

“He did say we could call him, though.”

“Mr. Giles isn’t a full Warlock. He knows magic, but doesn’t like to use it, much - I don’t know the specifics. And even if he could train her, there has to be a certain trust, I think, between the student and the teacher. Willow hasn’t trusted him since he came back, he didn’t approve of… what we did.” The resurrection, it’s not hard to guess, and his esteem for the Watcher rises, for a minute, “And… he’s n-not here,” only to plummet down, again.

“He could know someone, though, right?” At the mutual return to silence, the ex-demon makes a beeline away to the phone. “I’ll just call him, then.”

The whelp turns on him, when she’s gone, threatening, “If this is all some _twisted_ plot --”

And it _stings_ , the idea he’s spent the entire summer helping to watch the boy’s back, and yet the whelp doesn’t give a _damn_. “You’d be the last person I’d tell,” he returns.

Silence reigns, and it’s the boy who once again breaks it, denial apparently at the forefront of his brain as he states, “Buffy can’t just kick Will out.”

This time, Glinda rises to the bait. “She hurt _Dawn_ , Xander. Spike’s right, it’s - the fact that Buffy’s trying to help at all - I _love_ -lov _ed_ her Xander, and _I_ left because I was so afraid she’d keep making me _forget_ , until I wasn’t even a person anymore, again, like when Glory --.”

“Turned your brains to mush.”

Her answer is barely a whisper. “Yes.” She stills for a moment before she continues, “Xander, Buffy’s protecting Dawn. And I know you’ve been her best-friend since kindergarten, and it’s been you and Willow and Buffy since high school - but Spike wouldn’t be here and telling us _anything_ if Buffy hadn’t told him to, and it’s too outrageous of a story to ever make up, aside from the fact that he’s been helping us for the past _6 months_ , which - that’s plenty enough time for us to learn to accept his word.”

“Thanks,” he finds himself saying, and Glinda returns it with a shrug aimed at his direction, an, “It’s long overdue,” - as an apology, before continuing seamlessly on.

“Point is, Xander, Spike wouldn’t be here if Buffy wasn’t trying to help Willow. But he is, and if it hadn’t been _Dawn_ \- then she would be right here with us. But it _was_ Dawn, and _that’s_ why we’re all here picking our brains at seven in the morning, instead of anywhere else. For what it’s worth, Xander, I think Buffy is _right_ to kick Willow out. It’s _good_ she’s taking care of Dawn, because _someone_ should. Then again, it’s _Buffy’s_ house, and I was the one whose _mind_ Willow _violated_ , so what do I know?” 

Glinda’s practically shouting by her last words, furiosity and hurt radiating from her, and Spike finds himself backing away, a step or two, a bitter taste in his mouth. He’s done worse. Lots worse, torturing humans and vampires and demons alike, until they _bleed_ , and _stop_. Just before they die. Watched as they beg for mercy he refuses to give them. 

Glinda’s confession of Red’s actions shouldn’t hurt him, then, but it does. Glinda’s a good one, he knows, taking care of meals, and the Little Bit, more so than the others, even defending _him_ \- and it increases the furious rage he feels at Red, before it sends him flashing to a girl they’d chained up in Prague, him and Dru, and he was just as bad, _is_ \- then back to the present with the taste of ash in his mouth, and Glinda still talking. Calmer, now.

“I’ll ask about dorms. See if there’s any open. Willow will have to go herself, eventually, but I can ask, I’ll call from campus when I know more.”

“Tara - I’m sorry.” He finds himself saying, stopping Glinda before she opens the door.

Her expression softens when she looks at him, and the ash tastes like dust. “You didn’t know, Spike.”

The door shuts behind her with a clang of the bell.


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick thank you to those of you who have read this, and commented, it's lovely to see your thoughts. This chapter contains a lot of a character who I wasn't entirely sure how to write - Anya- so any suggestions for future chapters would be welcome.

It’s a creek of footsteps on the stairs what must be hours later, that makes you jump to your feet, whirl around stake in hand, snap out of your paranoid state.

The only thing behind you is the door, closed and locked; in front of you is Dawn, still asleep. Still breathing, still alive.

Nothing’s out to get her - at least not that you know of, at least not now - and paranoia isn’t going to do you any good.

The creeks and footsteps continue a few more paces, before they stop. Are replaced by a gushing of water that’s shut off soon after. Willow, you realize, tucking the stake in your jeans pocket for good, before you leave Dawn’s room, taking one last look before you go, closing the door soundlessly behind you. The second pill she took is supposed to last a full 8 hours anyway, you reason, staving off the urge to stay, to put off the ugly confrontation you know is inevitable.

You pad lightly down the stairs, and stop at the bottom, only to watch. Willow’s changed from yesterday’s clothes, has a sweater on with jeans, now, pink and fuzzy in sharp contrast to last night’s ensemble. You stand silent as you watch her transfer steaming water from a pan on the stove to a blue mug, no use of magic that you can detect, as she cups it in her hands for a moment, stilled, before exiting the kitchen and your line of vision.

You follow her to the couch, where you stand away and observe, again, Willow’s feet tucked underneath her, mug held steady but untouched, her eyes staring straight ahead. You think it’s at nothing, until you notice the picture frame, one of Dawn and Tara somewhere with grass and sunlight that must have been taken while you were gone, caught in the middle of some kind of dance, neither looking at the camera. You let Willow be for few more seconds, before you slip out of the shadows, perch lightly on the complete opposite end of the sofa, keep watching her until she turns to you.

Her face drains of color, then, when she does, and it’s a look of fear tinged with guilt, as opposed to sheer terror. It makes you want to recoil, and flinch away - _what have you done?_ \- but you wait it out, instead, hide your own fear, your own fury. Let _her_ break the silence first.

“I’m sorry,” she finally says, and it’s a hoarse whisper with permeating guilt practically dripping from her eyes. They’re not black, anymore, you let yourself take note - just your best friend’s original sea-green color, steadily filling up with tears. 

She doesn’t repeat it, again, not like the broken record of yesterday, so you ignore the almost overwhelming urge to comfort her - _she hurt Dawn_ \- and wait for whatever it is that follows the apology. 

You get a question, as she places the tea on the coffee table. “How’s Dawn?”

Willow’s voice is panicked, and scared, worried also, so you give her an answer, in careful monotone. “Sleeping. Knocked out from pain medication. Has a cast for her arm.”

“I didn’t --”

And the rage slips out, escapes the tight grip you’d had on it until a second ago, “She could have been _killed,_ Willow,” and your own voice is shaking, now, trembling out of control at voicing the possibilities of _both_ your carelessness, “ _We_ could’ve --”

“I know,” she’s saying, crying now, “I know. I-I’m not going to use magic anymore, Buffy, I hurt _Dawnie_ , and I _can’t - please_ help me. _Please_ ,” and that’s all it takes, for her to be sobbing in your arms. For you to be whispering hushed, meaningless platitudes, waiting out the storm, before you turn your back on her. 

You hope she can forgive you, someday, for this, your own soon to be inflicted betrayal on her, promising and then turning away - and look, another broken relationship chipped away, the one thing you’re good at. And you know that this should _hurt_ , more than it aches, should make it harder to breathe, like the terror that had gripped you when you’d realized she’d gone to face the hellgod _alone_ , the blinding fear and loss that’d been the aftermath of the screaming match between the three of you in Giles’ apartment, or the dread and guilt burning up with Will lying hurt and pale in a hospital bed as a result of the monster _you’d_ unleashed, or your first death, short and now almost _pathetic_ \- but it’d been for Willow. To stop the dawning horror of recent events from playing out on her face, to stop the world from turning out worse and unbearable. For her.

It barely feels like anything, now, when keeping on breathing has turned _always_ hard, and there’s only the past remembrance of how it’s supposed to be, echoes of how much this _should_ break you - _but aren’t you already broken?_ \- just the steady stream of surety that you _can’t_ risk Dawn.

But you hold her until she stops shaking, until the tears stop, until she pulls away and stares up at you like you’ll fix everything - _it’s been so long, since you could fix anything_ \- because you remember who she’s supposed to be, to you, the _right_ you, and you know you love her no matter what, even if that feeling is dull, and buried, hidden. It’s still there.

“They’re researching,” you start with, “Xander and Anya and the others. At the magic box.”

“I’ll go help them.” It’s Willow’s brand of over-eager, forced, almost-cheeriness. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Will.”

“I won’t use magic. I _won’t._ No. No more magic for me, just good, old-fashioned researching. With computers. And books.”

And it’s a guess, but you take it. “And how did that work out last time?”

It’s absolute silence, as Willow tears away her eyes from yours. And there’s a kind of rage, there, just for a second, before she folds into herself, shrinking away, voice so soft - ashamed, maybe - you almost don’t hear her answer. “It didn’t.”

“Is that why Tara moved out of the house?”

“Yes.”

“Will,” and your voice is just as soft, “I can’t let you stay here.”

She looks at you with pure confusion, then, with the look of lost victims you find wandering the streets at night, “What?”

“You hurt Dawn.” It’s blunt, harsh, honesty. “Your magic’s out of control, and this isn’t the first time.” You hope it doesn’t backfire on you, or more importantly, on Dawn, hopefully still asleep upstairs. “I’m going to do _everything_ else I can to help you, but this is _my_ house, and it’s non-negotiable. You hurt _me_ , I don’t care.” As the words leave your mouth, you're aware it's not the complete truth. That you _do_ care, that since you’ve been back, being around Willow has come hand in hand with an unshakable sense of discomfort. Of distrust. Of betrayal, of _hurt_. But you can overlook her wrongs done to you - maybe it's payback for your wrongs done to her (and to Xander), maybe you deserve it - whereas you can't brush aside the hurt she's (purposefully or not) inflicted on others, and in that, your statement rings true. “You hurt _Tara_ , I should have noticed.” And you don’t know what happened, but something devastating enough for Tara to have been moved out in less than a day should have garnered your attention, even if it didn’t result in _this_. “You hurt _Dawn_ , I can’t _trust_ you anymore. I’ll help you pack, I’ll help you find somewhere to stay, I’ll help you move.” And you let your voice soften, as you finish, let your own fear dominate, “But you can’t stay here.”

She doesn’t meet your gaze, focused intently on her tea cup, but to your relief, she doesn’t argue. “When do you want me out?”

“By tonight.”

The betrayal shines clear in her eyes, then, as she stares at you in disbelief, brings your own guilt back full force, but you hold tight, don’t let yourself waver. 

_That’s_ when the anger comes, what you’ve been waiting for and afraid of, as she looms closer so she’s standing over you - but Willow’s eyes don’t morph into the unfeeling blackness they did yesterday, and you count that as a win.

“If anyone should be kept away from Dawn, it’s _you_ , Buffy. What happened last night was an _accident. You’re_ the one who _wasn’t_ here. _You’re_ why she came with me. You’ve hurt her more than I ever could.”

And the words ring painfully true, so you swallow back a retort, say a soft, “I know,” because it’s everything you’re trying to fix, “and that's why.” 

There’s magic crackling at her fingertips, then, dancing like beams of electricity, and you prepare yourself to jump and duck behind your arm of the couch if need be, run up the stairs and grab Dawn after, use yourself as a weapon and a pillow to crash through a two story window, if it comes to that. You’re not sure if this is even the Willow you know, right now, if she’ll even listen if you argue back.

“You get a second chance, but I _don't_? You get a free pass just because you're the Slayer, because everyone is so _happy_ you're back, but I _brought_ you back, I’m the _reason_ you still _have_ a house, _and Dawn_ , and you’re kicking **me** out?”

“Will.” You start, ignoring the words, for now, because it won’t do any good ( _but you can't help think that it's all true, that they're all ignoring you until you screw up bad enough - Giles already left, and you hate it here but you're doing this because you need a reason to stay - it's not like heaven wanted you anyway - but if you died for Dawn, then you figure you have to live for her too, hard or not, and Willow gave you that - but you don't want it - death was supposed to be your_ **gift** ); keeping your voice steady, because there’s fear coursing through _every_ inch of you, the numbness inexplicably _gone_ , again, “Look at your hands, please.”

She does, and the light in her hands sparks _blinding_ bright, before it fizzles out, a black singe transferred to the couch cushion beside you.

“I didn’t --” she’s studying her hands like they’ll reveal what she needs to know, her previous righteousness gone, “I didn’t --. It was just so... _instinctive_ ,” and now Willow’s looking at them in horror, looking at _herself_ in horror, and your mind flashes to another moment, another face temporarily frozen in self-revulsion, a girl _you_ couldn't do anything for, but Angel could, somehow.

( _“You have no idea what it's like on the other side --”_ words hurled at you from darkness on a rooftop, _“When **nothing's** in control, when **nothing** makes sense,” _ words you refused to hear, then. Words true beyond belief, now, the Slaying your only constant.)

Willow’s voice, quiet, still in shock, draws you out from the past, back to the present. “I barely realized I was doing _anything_.”

“But you were,” you say, watch as she sinks back down into the couch at the edge furthest away, and there’s no defiance left, now, she just looks _scared_ , huddled away from you. 

There are words you should say, comforting ones, but you can’t think of any, not now when you have no way of actually helping her, not now when all your doubts of kicking Willow to the curb have suddenly vanished to dust, replaced by a firm conviction that Dawn will be _infinitely_ safer without the threat of Willow’s uncontrolled magic.

“I’ll leave.” And it’s shaken, but it’s agreement, “I just don’t know where to go,” she says, talking again to the cup, rather than you.

“I think the others might,” you reply, the closest to comfort you can offer, crossing over to the phone, dialing the number for the Magic Box, carefully keeping Willow in your sight as you do so, hoping the others have found an actual solution.

You’re very much afraid of what could happen if there isn’t one.

 

~ ~ ~

 

It’s Xander and Anya who enter the house when you open the door not half an hour later, Xander going straight to Willow, Anya following almost reluctantly behind, falling into step with you.

“Did you close the shop?” you ask, because it seems so out of character, following immediately with, “It’s bad, isn’t it?” when Anya gives you a nod.

Her reply is an immediate, resolute, “ _Yes_ ,” and you can think of nothing else to say.

Anya begins talking as soon as everyone's situated, seated directly across from Willow with Xander next to her, you leaning against the door frame, almost out of sight but still listening.

“Covens are old magic, and human magic. Witches and warlocks combining their power to unite as one, drawn directly from the core of the earth.” Her tone is oddly reminiscent of the one Giles uses - _used_ \- when he’d go into full Watcher lecture mode, and you force your focus back to Anya and Willow before the memories overwhelm you. “These days, they mostly watch over seers and warn of great, upcoming evils. And when they have to,” and Anya’s eyes never leave Willow’s face, “they intervene. Your magic, yesterday? A coven in Devon felt it. For the second time, apparently. They contacted Giles because he was familiar to the area - asked him if he’d be willing to act as an intermediary, to strip the user’s magic if necessary.”

Willow’s face goes ashen pale, and Xander reals back, as if struck, but Anna continues on before he can interrupt - “But the coven also offered to give tutelage to the witch or warlock if the user was agreeable.” - and Xander relaxes, again, back into his former position with an arm loosely around Willow, comforting her, although you notice, your attention fixed on her as it is, the way her face is still absent of color. 

“Now, you _stopped_ abusing your magic, so you’re not in any immediate danger, but you can’t abstain from magic forever - it’s physically impossible for a witch, and Giles knows it’s you. He’s on the next the next flight here -” and you force yourself to blink through Anya’s next few words as tears spring to your eyes, unbidden, but you’ll deal with the onslaught of emotions later, you'll _have_ to, need to take care of Willow, of Dawn, apologize to Tara, take care of the _house_ , find a job (because you’ve been putting it of for as long as everything else) **first** , because otherwise it's all just going to get _worse_ so you clench your fists until it hurts _enough_ , until Anya’ lecturing tone is louder than your thoughts, again, “... says the coven’s offer to train you still stands, though apparently he hasn’t _told_ the coven he _knows_ the witch,” and the tone of Anya’s voice here makes clear her disdain, “although he won’t _force_ you to accept it.”

Willow goes to open her mouth, but Anya, again, apparently at the end of her tolerance - and you can’t help wondering _why_ , wondering what exactly it is you’ve been missing, these past months - days - _and hell, you don’t even know how long exactly it’s been_ \- that’s led to the ex-demon’s apparently renewed dislike of Willow - talks right over her. “His flight’s supposed to land tomorrow afternoon. If I were you, I’d go back with him.”

And then she’s up and out, stopping only to motion for you to follow her, taking the stairs down to the basement. You hesitate for a moment, just one, as Willow blinks in apparent shock at Anya’s sudden, abrupt, departure, enough time to catch Xander’s eyes, enough time for him to give you a brief, curt, nod - and then you move out of the room too, soundlessly heading after his fiance.

 

~~~

 

Anya’s waiting for you at the 4th til last step of the basement, studying the stairs below her with a kind of intense scrutiny usually reserved for first time customers at the Magic Box. You stop one step behind her, see nothing but grey floor and wall, just a filing cabinet in the corner, a ladder against the wall. There used to be more than miles and miles of empty space, you think, but it must have been moved at some point, elsewhere.

“The water came up to here.”

“It -- what?”

She turns to face you, no longer taking up the space of the step in its entirety, “When it flooded. The water level stopped here.”

There's a too long moment of silence as your memories sort themselves into order, as you try to formulate a response that makes sense, eventually coming up with, “Right.”

The sinking feeling is back in your stomach, again, as you look around the room and spot areas where the wall is darker in certain areas than others, exactly where the fourth step levels off, look at the pipes and can't even draw up the faintest recollection of which pipe it was that started the leak to begin with.

“You can go down. It won't hurt you,” you add eventually, at loss for anything else to say.

Apparently it’s the correct thing, because Anya gives you a quick glance and a shrug, before moving down to the base of the stairs in what seems like no time at all.

You follow after her, slowly. Keeping your hand on the stairway railing, afraid if you let it go, everything in front of you will reshape it self, again, until you no longer stand _any_ chance of catching up to reality.

“You wanted to talk to me?”

Anya’s face is going all scrunchy at you, and so you grip onto the rail tighter, prepare to be told _(again)_ whatever conversation it is you’ve forgotten, only to let out a sigh of relief at her answer.

“Spike said you wanted to talk to _me_.”

“I did,” you reassure her, because now _Anya’s_ the one who looks like she wants to escape back up the stairs and out of this house, “I did, I just, thought you came for Willow, and… anyway.” Your voice feels small as you force yourself to meet her eyes, “I wanted to ask you, again, if you could help me with the money. For the house.”

She tilts her head a bit to the side, considering. “Did they send _more_ bills?”

“No,” you answer, this time unable to meet her eyes, not wanting to see the all too frequent look of _disappointment_ in Anya that Willow, Xander, and Dawn seem to practically radiate around you, “They’re the same as before. I didn’t _do_ anything with them. And if they have sent more, I don’t know -- I don’t check -- I… _I keep on forgetting I even have a mailbox to check,_ ” you find yourself admitting, as your hands blur from beneath you, and the tears again, start to fall, stinging your eyes as they flood past.

You’re barely aware of Anya, with a gentleness that seems contradictory to everything else you know of her, carefully detaching your hands from the railing, guiding you against the wall, into a seated position, sitting soundlessly across from you as you automatically bring your knees against your chest.

You’re fading away fast, but Anya keeps a hold of your hands and starts talking, and you find the tears drying against your cheeks as the haze dissipates, as she anchors you back in the present.

“Humans care about strange things. Little things, that don’t _really_ matter for very long, or shouldn’t. Money, for one. I mean, it’s useful if you _live_ here - it means power, if you live here, since this world _likes_ its capitalism - but, well. Until Xander, I used to forget, in the beginning. That you can’t just _kill_ people for food, or even _take_ it from them, and I _tried_ going out and hunting for it, but the Sunnydale woods are _not_ friendly for those of us non-vampires without mystical powers - you should work on that, by the way, you’re doing a serious _service_ to vampires by only going around the cemeteries for patrol - but, well. I kept on getting into fights with the grocery shop owner about _not_ being able to just walk out of the store with broccoli and carrots, and then once Xander found out he taught me to go in the lines, and pay with your little coins, and green paper, and the grocery owner yelled at me a lot less after that, but it wasn’t habit, not right away. I’d forget. It wasn’t until the Magic Box, doing it day in and day out, the everything stuck - and now I’ve got a dance, and I _consistently_ bankrupt everyone else in Monopoly. But, in my first life… we had currency back then, too, a different type of currency, trading information and food for different food and luxuries, protection for honor… there were a few dimensions, inbetween, but I’ve not really _stayed_ long enough to do much aside from granting vengeance, so it’s _been_ a while. And I’ve been human for three years, and things still catch me out. We pulled you out after 5 months. And you _do_ keep on forgetting things: people, money, even demons, sometimes. But I think never because you want to, or are trying to. Watching you, sometimes I think you were away for longer.”

Sitting in front of you cross-legged while being unusually _kind_ , you can’t help but think that, even talking about robbing grocery stores and delivering vengeance, Anya seems at the most human you’ve ever seen her, the most open, suddenly eons away from the abrasive nature with which you’ve mostly come to associate her. And you mean to say thank you amidst the continuous waterworks, because your turmoil of emotions are mixed in with an unspeakable amount of _gratitude_ , now, mean to say thank you or apologize, but instead you find yourself answering, speaking truths you’ve done your hardest to ignore since your long-ago confession to Spike.

“It was. Longer.”

Anya doesn’t reply to your confession, and somehow you find yourself continuing on. “I didn’t _remember_ anyone, at first. I got Dawn on the tower, and Spike here. Willow the first night, once everyone came in shouting. Giles before he came. Tara, Xander and you the second day. I forgot about _Mom_ , until I saw her gravestone, only knew I _should_ recognize her from pictures, from Dawn. I didn’t even _think_ about Angel until he called, and I used to love him. _Too much_.” There have been other people since then, clicking back their place into whatever slot is theirs in your mind: Faith, Cordelia, Wesley, Drusilla, _Riley_ and the fiasco with the initiative, your _dad_ if you can even still call him that, Lily who became Anne, from your woebegone summer in LA.

There’s a light squeeze against your hands, and you look back up as Anya lets go, your arms falling listlessly to your sides.

“You’re still missing people, missing memories.”

And you’re pretty sure you’ve got most things since coming to Sunnydale, know you came from LA, know that there was a time you went to Hemery, know how Merrick _died_ , and you burned a gymnasium full of Lothos and his followers to _make. them. pay…_ but not so much of before. 

“I think so.” 

Anya stands, suddenly, beginning to pace.

“You know, when you came back,” she starts, making you both grateful and hateful of the wall behind you, of your unwillingness to move, of how you are at once both steadied and trapped, because this is _not_ a topic you want to keep delving into, “I just kept on being surprised.” 

But the grating panic that makes itself known around Willow, the fear of rejection that comes alive near Xander, the sense of failure that manifests itself close to Dawn and Tara - all you feel around Anya is uncertain and _scared_ , so you listen, let her go on. 

“I've seen the way you look at me, I know Willow forgets, and so does Xander, but I’ve always been a Vengeance Demon first, for you.” Something else you should fix, undoubtedly. “The Slayer in you knows it, or at least, you did before you came back - even if I couldn't do anything dangerous to you, you knew. Like Spike, with his chip. And when Willow asked us to help - it was like she’d made a wish, and I _wanted_ to help, you understand, I was the one who got her the Urn. But resurrections, they're tricky business. I've seen eight, done. Eight that’ve made it through the ritual process. You're the first I've _ever_ seen come back _whole_. It's this unwritten rule, among demons - resurrections are bad business. But I thought - and Willow didn't, but I _thought_ -” and here Anya’s voice breaks before she continues, and you realize you’ll need to let _go_ of any ill dispositions you may have had against her because of the resurrection, because you realize now that this is an _apology_ , and that she means it. “... honestly, that Glory’s portal or not, mystical death, or not, that the resurrection would fail, because The Powers That Be, Forces of Good - call them what you will - you died a _Slayer’s_ death. Saving the world. So I thought you'd end up somewhere nice. Somewhere _good_ , for you. Never a hell dimension in a million years.”

“Really?”

And Anya stops in her pacing to look at you straight on, almost daring you to contradict her with her reply of, “I _don’t_ make a habit of lying to people.”

Which is true enough to make you get up onto your feet also, lean against the wall and brush away the last of the tears. Back to business, now, or nothing will get done.

But Anya’s honesty feels like an undeserved amount of kindness, directed at you, and you find another admission slipping from your own lips before you can give it much thought. “No, you don’t. But you’re wrong, a bit. I _didn’t_ \--come back _whole_.”

It’s instinctive, you can tell, the first step she takes away from you - can tell because she’s halfway through the second step before something makes her pause, when she walks back toward you, again, and you recognize that at some point while you weren’t looking, Anya has become not just a firm ally, but a full-on Scooby. “But you act like you. You _interact_ with us like you, except when you’re off forgetting, and that’s just an issue of time. And you _haven’t_ tried to kill us, yet, but you’ve had more than enough opportunities to - and why would you tell _me_ , when _I_ was the strongest advocate for killing you back when it seemed like you’d come back wrong?”

And you aren’t sure if you should be offended or honored (afterall, as the Slayer, killing the unnatural is _supposed_ to fall under your prerogative, a mission your friends obviously continued it (at least to _some_ extent) while you were _gone..._ ) so you ignore her last statement, and try to answer the rest of her question. “Because I don’t _want_ to hurt you, Anya, or anyone else, but it -” _living_ “- being _here_ , still _feels…_ ” dark. heavy. unbearable. “off. A--and Spike’s chip,” the ultimate proof, “it doesn’t work on me, anymore.” 

She doesn’t start backing away again. Doesn’t lunge at you in some attempt at an attack. Just crinkles her face a into a slight frown, cocks her head to the side, lets the uncomfortable silence reign as she stares directly at you, while you stand almost rigidly still.

“I’ll look up a few things, from the rituals we used,” she eventually concludes, and then, hesitantly, uncertainly, “Do you mind if I ask Tara for help? I’d ask Willow, except…”

“Sure,” you answer quickly, determined to steer the topic away from that of your best-friend. And if you can learn what exactly it is that makes you _wrong_ \- well, maybe, it can help you fix this.

Anya’s nod in response seems to conclude the conversation, and you don’t fight against it as she aquises to your original request: “I still think you should charge people for slaying - but yes, I’d be _happy_ to go through the finances again - although you _do_ need to do something about it this time, it really won’t get any better if you leave it be.”

The reason behind the placement of the filing cabinet suddenly makes sense, as, acting on instinct, you cross the room to pull out the top draw, the many, many, papers all lying inside related to the issue at hand. Unceremoniously, you pick them up out of the drawer and place them atop the bottom step, soon seated across the floor from the ex-demon, again, as she goes through the papers in what seems like a supersonic speeding, barely even looking at some.

“You really haven’t looked at these at all,” she states, once the last paper has been sorted, and you manage a shrug in response. True as Anya’s words are, they sting, and as much as you want to defend yourself, lash _back_ , you let her continue on - Anya, aside from her penchant for harsh honesty, has done you no wrong, is _helping_ you _mend_ the wrongs _you’ve_ caused.

“These,” she explains, pointing to the first pile, “are bank statements and legal things, things you’ve paid off, things about Dawn, mostly things you kept after,” and here her voice softens, “Joyce’s death. It also shows how much money you have, and as far as bank transactions, what it’s been used for. You should probably read through them, again, sooner rather than later, I know you tried to get a bank loan, but you should be able to apply for child-support payment from the government, for Dawn - information about custody is in this paper, here, so I left it on top.”

Everything after and relating Mom’s death, up to the everlasting awful series of devastating showdowns with Glory, is something of a painful blur, although you remember bits, and pieces - Angel who held you the night of the burial, before leaving; Willow and Tara, Xander and Anya, staying over with food; Dawn trying to bring her _back_ , and failing; Spike’s somehow constant presence; wildflowers on the porch seat; the constant presence of Giles, as he talked you through funeral arrangements and paperwork, the issue of your _dad_ , of Hank Summers failing to reply to any letters or phone calls - and you think this must have been a part of that. “Right, legal stuff. I need to read it, but not pay it.”

Anya nods and moves onto the next pile. “These are things you need to pay _immediately_ , or well, as soon as possible - with gas, lights, and the phone, the companies will cut the services off if you stop the payments -”

“They _do_ that?”

She gives you an annoyed _look_ for interrupting, finishing with, “and since the next deadline is December, that’s not a lot of time.”

Which leads to another question you should probably know the answer to, but what with your alternative source of information being Spike, who’s done _far_ too much for you already, and _Dawn_ , with whom you’ve already been absent-minded _enough_ , you find yourself asking, “Does that make it November now?”

And Anya, to her credit, barely lets a moment pass before answering, “The 24th,” seamlessly moving onto the third pile.

You guess it makes sense, given it _was_ , now that you think about it, Halloween, when Dawn snuck away with Janice and ended up meeting a vampire. You guess it makes _sense_ , that Giles waited before he acted, saw only your continued state of going through the motions, achieving nothing, before he ultimately chose to leave.

“These are the rest of the payments - mortgage for the house, debt from UC Sunnydale, although you were only enrolled for a year and a half, which is _good_ news for you, I don’t even want to _know_ how much Willow and Tara are paying, the plumber Xander hired - that need paying.”

It doesn’t escape your notice that this pile, by far, is the largest. “So, everything _else_ that needs proper dealing with,” you sum up, and Anya, again, nods.

“Now, these,” she indicates the fourth pile, “are things you’ve already paid off. You want to keep them for proof, so no one can take more money from you than you already owe. You don’t _have_ to look through these, but you might want to consider your mom’s gallery.”

“She said she closed it, I think,” the conversation drifting back to you, “before the first surgery. And she never opened it up again, because… she was waiting a week, after the tumor was supposed to be gone. She was getting used to being back from the hospital, and then… she never got a chance to.”

Anya is talking almost as soon as you’ve stopped, her pragmatic logistics drawing you to the present, again, before you can fall back into the mind trap of the past. “You’re right, there’s no money going into the venue, it’s rented out by someone else now, probably. But she owned - you _own_ \- all the artworks. Since we never went through Joyce’s things, they’re probably still in one of the boxes, and I was going to say you could maybe sell them.”

“For money.”

“Yes. Xander told me a story about a demonic mask… if there’s anything that’s non-human in its nature, the Magic Box could buy it from you.”

It’s another thing you’ve been avoiding, the boxes crowding up the attic. Moved to that location post-flood, from both the basement, and your room, after the old coffee table was deemed irreparable, and you suppose, after you made it clear you _were_ real, and intended to stay. But Dawn is, in all the way it matters, likewise your mother’s daughter, and so you add it under your mental list of things to talk about once she wakes up, keeping Anya’s offer in mind.

“And the last pile?” It’s a stack of envelopes, appearing smaller than the rest.

“It’s mail unrelated to payments, that came after. Addressed to Joyce.”

“Oh.”

“I think Tara was saving them for Dawn, initially, they’re just letters, no payments - but, they’re yours now.”

“What did you do with the non-money mail that came for me?”

She shrugs. “Dawn, I’d guess. Although maybe Willow or Tara - I don’t really know.”

Another topic, perhaps, to bring up with your sister.

“So I can ignore these?” You indicate the fourth pile, and, at her nod, get to your feet, dumping the pile back in the filing cabinet drawer.

You stack the rest of the papers all together, placing the envelopes between the second and third piles so you can distinguish between them, Anya mirroring you as you stand back up.

“Thank you,” you tell her, and she offers a smile, and what seems like a genuine, “You’re welcome,” before she follows you, both of you walking somewhat slowly, reluctantly, back up the stairs.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The main floor of the house, mercifully, is empty, and after a second glance around the dining room area, you find a note, placed above the table atop the day’s newspaper - technically two notes, on the same piece of paper - scrawled by Xander:

“Buff -  
Packed a few boxes for Willow,  
Driving her to her parent’s house, then to the university.  
Will be back to pick up more stuff in the afternoon.  
Can we talk then?

Ahn -  
Willow’s going to need a ride to LAX, to meet Giles and fly out.  
Either tomorrow or Monday, depends on the flight.  
I’ll be back for tonight.  
Love you,  
Xander”

You hand the sheet over to Anya, who sighs, but says nothing, simply placing the paper back onto the table once she finishes reading it.

“It’s a good thing, right? Willow, going?”

“Yes.” She doesn’t turn to look at you, her gaze still lingering on Xander’s note.

“Sometimes, I think about what an _excellent_ vengeance demon Willow would be. How perfectly _destructive_ her spells are, how perfectly harnessed they could _be_ \- if only she weren’t so _selfish_.”

“She isn’t --”

“She _wasn’t_ , completely, before, I agree. But recently - she wanted you _back_ , she wanted Tara _complacent, she_ wanted to make you both forget, _she_ wanted to feel in control - it’s all about _her_. I think the coven _will_ help with her powers, with the ethics. I’m just not sure if it’ll be enough to make her realize, in practice, that she has to work _through_ problems, instead of blaming them on others, or, right now, magicking them away. But you’re also right that she’s only getting worse about it here.”

Anya’s reluctant affirmation of your decision feels hollow, but again, you ignore the urge to argue with her. You want Willow her with you, but not as she is now, seemingly causing harm left and right. Not as she is now, when just being in the same room as her makes you uncomfortable.

“I should check on Dawn,” you say, at loss for anything else.

“I should go back to the Magic Box,” she returns, “open it again. I thought we’d be here longer.” 

She leaves with one last glance at the note, making her way with familiarity out of the house.

You flip the sheet over, writing that you’ll be in Dawn’s room for when Xander returns, gathering up your things as you return to keeping vigil over your still sleeping sister.


End file.
